


Counting Down From Ten

by FeelsForBreakfast



Category: Harry Potter - J. K. Rowling
Genre: Kill Your Darlings, M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-03-13
Updated: 2015-03-13
Packaged: 2018-03-17 15:48:23
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,517
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/3535103
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/FeelsForBreakfast/pseuds/FeelsForBreakfast
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Draco sneaks out to the porch to smoke and feel sorry for himself, and Harry comes wandering after him.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Counting Down From Ten

**Author's Note:**

> For alpha-exodus' Kill Your Darlings (kill ur drarry) inspired drarry fest! I chose this porch scene whiplash2014.tumblr.com/post/112989635435/fandomandother-kill-your-darlings-2013 and used the concept of 'boys outside smoking and talking about feelings weirdly intimately' and refashioned it into some post war garbage. I did use the smallest bit of dialogue from the movie and I won't spoil it but if you're curious you can find the screenplay easily on google!
> 
> Also! Brief content warnings: I talk about a panic attack very abstractly, Draco has some obsessive tendencies, and alcohol and smoking happen.

The party was, in theory, a good idea. Everyone was so full of good ideas after the war, lobbing thing after thing at the wall until one of them stuck. Draco thinks that it isn’t that everything was and continues to be wrong, but that everything flew in different directions and they haven’t found all the pieces yet. Draco thinks in metaphors a lot now, thinks in analogies and graphs in a constant struggle to make sense of things.

Line graphs compare two variables and if the x axis is ‘party time elapsed’ and the y axis is ‘how scrambled Draco feels’ then the line would go upwards, only upwards and to the right. The percentage of how many people in this room who still hate Draco is probably 35% and the other 65% just aren’t sure and then there’s Luna, who’s waving at him from over by the champagne.

Luna invited Pansy and Blaise as well but only 2/3 of them went. Draco would be more angry about Pansy’s absence if he hadn’t watched her have a panic attack for fifteen minutes after receiving the invitation, the aftershocks of which lasted about three hours.

“You have to go,” she told him sternly as he sat next to her on the floor of her bedroom while she calmed down. “Don’t let Blaise convince them he’s the only charming one.”

“You still think I’m charming?” Draco had asked, looking down at the visible veins in his wrist: three, if you counted only the biggest.

“I’ll always think you’re charming,” she said, and she didn’t really bother to make it a tease. They barely have it in them to guard their compliments anymore and it’s so Hufflepuff, but Draco can’t be arsed.

Half of the music is muggle and half of it’s wizard, but Draco’s having trouble telling it apart because he doesn’t know any of the popular songs. Draco is watching the party through the fish tank glass. He’s almost tempted to tap the glass and mouth ‘hello?’ at the fish inside to try to get them to let him in, but thinks that would probably end badly so he doesn’t.

He’s talked to nearly everyone already, painfully aware that the only reason they spoke to him was because Luna told them to play nice with the big bad Slytherins. His only consolation is that Blaise isn’t doing much better, sipping champagne in a corner like he’s too cool to care. They should probably stick together, but there’s an unspoken agreement that that’s admitting defeat. Draco hopes he looks too cool to care in his own corner, but is sharply aware that he probably just looks standoffish and lonely. All of these people know too much and not enough about him.

Harry Potter is by the punch. A pie graph of the reasons Draco Malfoy doesn’t want to talk to Harry Potter looks like this: _10% What the hell would I say to him anyway? 20% Why is his hair so fucking stupid. 30% I don’t want to explain anything to anyone but I especially don’t want to explain anything to him. 40% What if he tries to talk about his feelings? What the hell am I supposed to do then?_

Luckily, Harry Potter doesn’t seem to be interested in talking to Draco either, which is a whole new pie graph, because there’s a small percentage of Draco that wants Potter to want to talk to him. If Potter tried to talk to him then he would know that Draco is just fine and perfectly adjusted and still charming.

Draco finishes his champagne and starts the slow trek out to the porch. He deserves a ten minute break.

It’s chilly out, especially for summer, and Draco feels the breeze crawl up his arms like tiny caterpillars. He’s wearing the tee shirt and jeans Pansy picked out for him and he misses the comfort of robes. Everyone else is wearing muggle clothing and he knows he’d feel ridiculous in them, but that doesn’t mean he’s used to how underdressed he feels. It’s that crawling-out-of-his-skin feeling again. It never leaves for long.

He digs a pack of cigarettes from his back pocket and lights the tip of one with his wand, sitting on the top step and inhaling acrid smoke. It’s a nasty habit, and he’s a nasty person. If he divided the amount of times his mother told him to quit by the number of nightmares he has that end with him screaming, he’d have a number close to one.

He blows almost-smoke-rings and rubs his fingers over the dead flesh of the dark mark. It used to be so sensitive, used to feel like fire when he brushed up against it and now it doesn’t feel at all, which is disorienting. If he smokes three cigarettes it’ll be good luck. One for Mother, one for Blaise, one for Pansy. One for today, one for yesterday, one for tomorrow. All three, just for him.

He lays down, slow and steady until his head bumps the wood paneling of the porch. He can see just enough stars and constellations he knows the names of to comfort him. Draco, right above his head, mirroring himself back to him. 1/2 of the Draco’s in existence are indestructible and made of fire and will last until everyone has forgotten about all the people hurt by the other 1/2 of all the Draco’s in existence.

He’s on his second cigarette. The one for Blaise, who is probably inside making friends.

He hears the door swing open and stares resolutely up at the sky, hoping it's someone he doesn’t care about on their way home. Maybe they’ll pass without even a wave or a mumbled goodbye. Maybe they’ll step on him.

Whoever it is stops short, the door clattering shut behind them. “Why aren’t you at the party?”

Draco thinks if he could sigh all of his organs out of his body that would be dramatic enough to sum up how he feels. He can think of four possible answers.

_Q: Why aren’t you at the party?_

_A. I’m shit at parties_  
_B. 35% of the people in there hate me and you’re definitely part of that number_  
_C. Fuck off_  
_D. Something witty_

Draco, in a panic, picks D. “Too many people, not enough wine,” he drawls, taking a drag of his cigarette. He thinks his voice might've shaken a little. He thinks he can blame the cold.

Potter lets out brief exhalation that’s vaguely disbelieving. Draco feels like scoffing back at him something along the lines of ‘ _don’t act like you’re surprised by me. You know exactly what I’m like, don’t you? You know I’m a fucking mess, you saw._ ’ He doesn’t, because if Potter decided to fight him he’d lose no matter what.

“I’m more of a butterbeer guy, myself,” says Potter finally, and Draco almost chokes on smoke.

“Merlin, of course you are.” He says, closing his eyes so they don’t water.

He waits for Potter to go away. He waits eight whole seconds and then sighs when he hears Potter move forward in three quick strides like he’s been steeling himself and then sit down next to him on the porch. Potter leans back and their shoulders brush and this was not in Draco’s stupid plan at all.

They’re a venn diagram with Draco in one circle and Potter in the other and they’ve spent their whole lives with too much overlap in the middle and now Potter’s doing it all over again.

“Aren’t you cold?” Potter asks, and Draco keeps his eyes closed and doesn’t look at him. Potter smells like something warm and herbal and Draco wishes he hadn’t noticed.

“A little, yes,” Draco responds curtly, blowing smoke up, up, up. The pie graph has shifted. The Pie Graph of Reasons Harry Potter Shouldn’t Talk to Draco Malfoy has changed to 25% _What if he talks about his stupid feelings? What am I going to do then? 25% What if he wants to talk about my stupid feelings? What am I going to do then?_ and _50% He smells too nice and I hate it._

“It’s nice out here,” Potter says, and his voice sounds so different without all the malice in it. It’s like he has a whole new voice that Draco hasn't heard before. Truthfully, Potter might not know what Draco’s real voice sounds like either, but it probably doesn’t matter to him so much.

“I know,” Draco responds, and he’s trying to be nice. He’s trying not to evaporate. He’s trying not to notice the way Potter smells. He’s failing.

“I get the leaving thing,” Potter says after a moment, and Draco knows that Potter is _looking_ at him. Maybe probing at is the verb. Potter is too close for his face to be turned towards Draco. “If too many things are happening I don’t really know what to do like, my senses can’t handle it.” There’s a silence that Draco’s mind fills with a million irritated question marks. “Side effect of dying for a bit I guess.”

Draco tries to think of a response, really he does, but the only thing he can seem to think of is that Potter is talking to him like a real person and they don’t do that with each other. They _don’t._ Maybe they shouldn’t.

“Sorry,” Potter says quietly. “Just trying to like, I don’t know. Empathize.”

“Don’t get all sappy,” Draco mumbles without thinking, ashing the cigarette on the porch. “We do enough of that, don’t you think?”

“Most people I know don’t do any of it,” Potter replies. The silence hangs heavy again and Draco breathes in for seven and out for seven three times.

“I can imagine. They’re all about progress, your lot,” Draco finally replies. _So dump all your savior-y problems on me,_ he thinks crossly.

Potter laughs even though Draco isn’t sure where the joke is, and Draco is dimly aware that Potter might not actually be okay. This is interesting news, because he was always of the egocentric notion that he was the only one who wasn’t okay. He thinks that heroes should probably be okay and this new development is upsetting.

“Do you get nightmares?” Draco asks suddenly, lobbing something at the wall, hoping it will stick.

Potter doesn’t answer for a moment, and Draco makes the mistake of turning to look at him, finding him close enough to inhale.

“Yeah,” Potter replies, close, close. Draco counts backwards from ten twice and tries to breathe. “I’m usually on a train. Sometimes the train will pass train stations filled with ghosts and I won’t be able to get off to see them. Sometimes there will be something on the train with me and I won’t know what it is or what car it’s in but I won’t be able to get away from it. I always wake up before it finds me, but barely.” Potter holds his gaze for all of it and that’s the worst part, really. Draco didn’t ask what he had nightmares about. Maybe he didn’t even care, how obtuse of Potter to assume that he did. “You do too?”

Draco’s answer is already in his throat even though he knows he shouldn’t. “Of course.” Draco counts down from ten quickly and then slow. “It’s always fucking Nagini.”

“Awful,” Potter says, eyes sharp in agreement and not pity and Draco feels a quiet sensation of the word _‘oh.’_

“Have potions helped?” Draco asks, a wry smile ghosting across his face. He can feel the cigarette burning up and he ashes it again but he doesn’t want to turn away to take a drag.

Potter laughs, and his eyes crinkle up when he does. Three little creases by each eye. “Nope.”

“Me neither,” Draco replies. “Father told me that men don’t have nightmares and surprisingly, that did nothing either.” He’s sharing too much but Potter still has laughter lines on his face and they’re talking about their bad dreams, for fucks sake.

“Hermione got me a muggle dream catcher,” Potter says.

“Muggles know about those?” Draco asks, thinking of the earth magic they learned about, dream catchers and old rites.

“They think they’re just superstitions,” Potter replies, and Draco counts the freckles on the bridge of his nose. Draco didn’t know he had freckles there. “Might as well be for the amount of good it did me.”

“Silly of them to believe such things,” Draco thinks, even though if he counts the veins in his wrists and the breaths he takes and the buttons as he does them up then maybe he won’t fall apart. “Can I ask you a very personal question?”

Potter’s eyes flick away and it takes all of Draco’s willpower not to tick his chin back up so they’re eye to eye again. Every part of him pouts ‘look at me’ and he counts the times Potter blinks so he won’t act on anything.

“Sure.”

“What was it like to die?” Draco asks, taking a quick drag so he can breathe and looking back over at Potter again.

“Unsettling. Not the worst,” Harry replies, then grimaces. “Before he died, Dumbledore told me to pity the living, not the dead, and above all, those who live without love. Which I guess is easy for him to say, because he’s fucking dead.”

Draco huffs out a puff of smoke and Harry squints when it hits his face, finally meeting Draco's eyes again. They’re too close, it’s fine. “Dying is still better than living without love. How Gryffindor.”

“Oh, right, because Slytherins don’t have feelings,” Potter scoffs, and Draco smiles despite himself.

“I resent that, I love plenty of things and have many feelings. I just don’t whirl them about like kites,” Draco says airily. He wants to count all of Potter’s eyelashes but he’s been resisting. He feels like his insides are on fire in a good way and thinks if he touches Harry he might burst into flame.

“I could really tell, what with you smoking out here all by yourself,” Potter responds, too close to be looking at him like that. Like he’s on fire too. Like they’re both on fire, like they’re going to burn this house down if they’re not careful. Like he doesn’t care.

If the x axis was the distance between their faces and the y axis was Draco’s heart rate the graph would be a steep, steep line going up and to the right.

“Oh sorry, I didn’t realize I had something I was supposed to prove,” Draco replies. What a joke. What a big fucking joke they’re having.

“I don’t make the rules, but unfortunately, you do,” Potter replies, a smirk on his face, of all things.

Draco lets their shoulders brush, lets their circles overlap into a strange rolling center of dracoandharry and counts down from ten. Potter’s lips are terribly pink and he thinks he knows where this has to go even though he isn’t sure how it got there.

“So what do you suggest?”

**Author's Note:**

> Annnywaaayyy hope you guys liked it! Kudos and comments mean a lot! <3 
> 
> Hmu on tumblr @ hellagrumpy, infinitylourry, or drarrytrash.


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